The Confessions of Tom Bourke

TOM BOURKE lives in a low long farm-house, resembling in
outward appearance a large barn, placed at the bottom of the hill, just where
the new road strikes off from the old one, leading from the town of Kilworth
to that of Lismore. He is of a class of persons who are a sort of black swans
in Ireland: he is a wealthy farmer. Tom's father had, in the good old times,
when a hundred pounds were no inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or
spend, accommodated his landlord with that sum, at interest; and obtained, as
a return for the civility, a long lease, about half a dozen times more
valuable than the loan which procured it. The old man died worth several
hundred pounds, the greater part of which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his
son Tom. But, besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his
deathbed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches, greatly as he
prized and is still known to prize them.. He was invested with the privilege,
enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of communicating with those mysterious
beings called "the good people."

Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about
fifty-five years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and bushy behind,
but rising in front erect and thick above his forehead, like a new
clothes-brush. His eyes are of that kind which I have often observed with
persons of a quick but limited intellect - they are small, grey, and lively.
The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather within, which they twinkle,
give them an expression of shrewdness and intelligence, if not of cunning. And
this is very much the character of the man. If you want to make a bargain with
Tom Bourke, you must act as if you were a general besieging a town, and make
your advances a long time before you can hope to obtain possession; if you
march up boldly, and tell him at once your object, you are for the most part
sure to have the gates closed in your teeth. Tom does not wish to part with
what you wish to obtain, or another person has been speaking to him for the
whole of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems to meet the most
favourable reception. "Very well, sir;" "That's true,
Sir;" " I'm very thankful to your honour," and other
expressions of kindness and confidence, greet you in reply to every sentence;
and you part from him wondering how he can have obtained the character which
he universally bears, of being a man whom no one can make any thing of in a
bargain. But when you next meet him, the flattering illusion is dissolved: you
find you are a great deal farther from your object than you were when you
thought you had almost succeeded: his eye and his tongue express a total
forgetfulness of what the mind within never lost sight of for an instant; and
you have to begin operations afresh, with the disadvantage of having put your
adversary completely upon his guard.

Yet, although Tom Bourke is, whether from supernatural
revealings, or (as many will think more probable) from the tell-truth,
experience, so distrustful of mankind, and so close in his dealings with them,
he is no misanthrope. No man loves better the pleasures of the genial board.
The love of money, indeed, which is with him (and who will blame him?) a very
ruling propensity, and the gratification which it has received from habits of
industry, sustained throughout a pretty long and successful life, have taught
him the value of sobriety, during those seasons, at least, when a man's
business requires him to keep possession of his senses. He has therefore a
general rule, never to get drunk but on Sundays. But, in order that it should
be a general one to all intents and purposes, he takes a method which,
according to better logicians than he is, always proves the rule. He has many
exceptions: among these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair and
market. days that happen in his neighbourhood; so also all the days on which
funerals, marriages, arid christenings. take place among his friends within
many miles of him. As to this last class of exceptions, it may appear at first
very singular, that he is much more punctual in his attendance at the funerals
than at the baptisms or weddings of his friends. This may be construed as an
instance of disinterested affection for departed worth, very uncommon in this
selfish world. But I am afraid that the motives which lead Tom Bourke to pay
more court to the dead than the living are precisely those which lead to the
opposite conduct in the generality of mankind a hope of future benefit and a
fear of future evil. For the good people, who are a race as powerful as they
are capricious, have their favourites among those who inhabit this world;
often show their affection, by easing the objects of it from the load of this
burdensome life; and frequently reward or punish the living, according to the
degree of reverence paid to the obsequies and the memory of the elected dead.

It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good
people, with whom he is said to hold frequent and intimate communications. To
the faithful, who believe in their power, and their occasional delegation of
it to him, he seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his high
prerogative, when any unfortunate being is struck [the term "fairy
struck" is applied to paralytic affections, which are supposed to proceed
from a blow given by the invisible hand of an offended fairy; this belief, of
course, creates fairy doctors, who by means of charms and mysterious journeys
profess to cure the afflicted. It is only faiir to add, that the term has also
a convivial acceptation, the fairies being not un-frequently made to bear the
blame of the effects arising from too copious a sacrifice to the jolly god. ¦
The importance attached to the manner and place of burial by the peasantry is
almost incredible; it is always a matter of consideration and often of dispute
whether the deceased shall be buried with his or her "own people."]
in his neighbourhood. Still, he will not be won unsued: he is at first
difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little gentle violence. On
these occasions he is unusually solemn and mysterious, and if one word of
reward be mentioned, he at once abandons the unhappy patient, such a
proposition being a direct insult to his supernatural superiors. It is true,
that as the labourer is worthy of his hire, most persons, gifted as he is, do
not scruple to receive a token of gratitude from the patients or their friends
after their recovery.

To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as I have
heard from many competent authorities, perfectly disinterested. Not many
months since, he recovered a young woman (the sister of a tradesman living
near him), who had been struck speechless after returning from a funeral, and
had continued so for several days. He steadfastly refused receiving any
compensation; saying, that even if he had not as much as would buy him his
supper, he could take nothing in this case, because the girl had offended at
the funeral one of the good people belonging to his own family, and
though he would do her a kindness, he could take none from her.

About the time this last remarkable affair took place, my
friend Mr. Martin, who is a neighbour of Tom's, had some business to transact
with him, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion. At last
Mr. Martin, having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a legal process,
which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was arranged to their mutual
satisfaction, and with perfect good humour between the parties. The
accommodation took place after dinner at Mr. Martin's house, and he invited
Tom to walk into the parlour and take a glass of punch, made of some excellent
potteen, which was on the table : he had long wished to draw out his
highly 'endowed neighbour on the subject of his supernatural powers, and as
Mrs. Martin, who was in the room, was rather a favourite of Tom's, this seemed
a good opportunity.

" Well, Tom," said Mr. Martin, " that was a
curious business of Molly Dwyer's, who recovered her speech so suddenly the
other day."

You may say that, sir," replied Tom Bourke; but I had to
travel far for it: no matter for that, now. Your
health, ma'am," said he, turning to Mrs. Martin.

"Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once
in that way in your own family," said Mrs. Martin.

"So I had, ma 'am; trouble enough; but you were only a
child at that time."

"Come, Tom," said the hospitable Mr. Martin,
interrupting him, " take another tumbler;" and he then added,
"I wish you would tell us something of the manner in which so many of
your children died. I am told they dropped off, one after another, by the same
disorder, and that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when
the physicians had given him over."

" 'Tis true for you, sir," returned Tom; "your
father, the doctor (God be good to him, I won't belie him in his grave) told
me, when my fourth little boy was a week sick, that himself and Doctor Barry
did all that man could do for him but they could not keep him from going after
the rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the rest wished to
take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart I am I did not know
before why they were taking my boys from me; if I did, I would not be left
trusting to two of 'em now."

"And how did you find it out, Tom?" enquired Mr.
Martin.

"Why, then, I'll tell you, sir," said Bourke.

"When your father said what I told you, I did not know
very well what to do. I walked down the little bohereen you know, sir,
that goes to the river side near Dick Heafy's ground; for 't was a lonesome
place, and I wanted to think of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got
weak in me, when I thought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not know
well how to face his mother with the news, for she doted down upon him.
Beside, she never got the better of all she cried at his brother's berrin
(burying) the week before. As I was going down the bohereen, I met an old
bocough [A peculiar class of beggars resembling the Gaberlunzie man of
Scotland] , that used to come about the place once or twice a year, and used
always sleep in our barn while he staid in the neighbourhood. So he asked me
how I was. 'Bad enough, Shamous (James,)' says I. 'I'm sorry for your
trouble,' says he; 'but you're a foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be
well enough if you would only do what you ought with him.' 'What more can I do
with him, Shamous?' says I: 'the doctors give him over.' 'The doctors know no
more what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her milk,' says
Shamous: 'but go to such a one,' says he, telling me his name, 'and try what
he'll say to you.' "

"And who was that, Tom?" asked Mr. Martin.

"I could not tell you that, sir," said Bourke, with
a mysterious look: "howsoever, you often saw him, and he does not live
far from this. But I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first,
may be I'd have now some of the them that's gone, and so Shamous often told
me. Well, sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By
course, I did every thing as he bid me. According to his order, I took the
little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and made a
bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well; sir, I lay down by his side, in
the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep. He got into a
perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drawn through the river, and
breathed hard, with a great impression (oppression) on his chest, and
was very bad - very bad entirely through the night. I thought about twelve
o'clock he was going at last, and I was just getting up to go call the man I
told you of; but there was no occasion. My friends were getting the better of
them that wanted to take him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house
but the child and myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting, and
that was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough of
light where we were laying to see a person walking or standing near us: and
there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except the cows chewing
the fodder in the stalls. Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you
- I won't belie my father, sir - he was a good
father to me - I saw him standing at the bed-side, holding out his right hand
to me, and leaning his other hand on the stick he used to carry when he was
alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all as if he was telling me not
to be afeard, for I would not lose the child. ' Is that you, father ?' says I.
He said nothing. 'If that's you,' says I again, 'for the love of them that's
gone, let me catch your hand.' And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as
a child's. He stayed about as long as you'd be going from this to the gate
below at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the
child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn't to-night a
healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the town of Ballyporeen,
across the Kilworth mountains."

But I think, Tom," said Mr. Martin, "it appears as
if you are more indebted to your father than to the man recommended to you by
Shamous; or do you suppose it was he who made favour with your enemies among
the good people, and that then your father -"

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Bourke, interrupting
him; "but don't call them my enemies. 'T would not be wishing to me for a
good deal to sit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir. - Here's
wishing you a good health and long life."

"I assure you," returned Mr. Martin, " I meant
no offence, Tom; but was it not as I say?"

"I can't tell you that sir," said Bourke; "I'm
bound down, sir. Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of; and my father,
and those they know, settled it between them."

There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to
enquire of Tom, whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and
a pair of pigeons, at the time of his son's illness - circumstances often
mysteriously hinted at by Tom.

"See that now," said he, turning to Mr. Martin,
"how well she remembers it! True for you, ma'am. The goat I gave the
mistress, your mother, when the doctors ordered her goats' whey."

Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued -"
Why, then, I'll tell you how that was. The goat was as well as e'er a goat
ever was, for a month after she was sent to Killaan to your father's. The
morning after the night I just told you of; before the child woke, his mother
was standing at the gap, leading out of the barn-yard into the road, and she
saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth, off the church, down towards
her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till they came to the house on the
hill at the other side of the river, facing our farm. They pitched upon the
chimney of that house, and after looking about them for a minute or two, they
flew straight across the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow,-house
where the child and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing,
sir?"

"Certainly not, Tom," returned Mr. Martin.

"Well, the woman came in to me, frightened,and told me.
She began to cry. - 'Whisht, you fool !' says I: ' 'tis all for the. better.'
'Twas true for me. What do you think, ma'am; the goat that I gave your mother,
that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry as a
bee, dropped down dead, without any body knowing why, before Jack's face ; and
at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly from the top of the house out of
the town, towards the Lismore road. 'T was at the same time my woman saw them,
as I just told you.

'T was very strange, indeed, Tom," said Mr. Martin;
"I wish you could give us some explanation of it."

"I wish I could, sir," was Tom Bourke's answer;
"but I'm bound down. I can't tell but what I'm allowed to tell, any more
than a sentry is let walk more than his rounds."

"I think you said something of having had some former
knowledge of the man that assisted in the cure of your son," said Mr.
Martin.

So I had, sir," returned Bourke. " I had a trial of
that man. But that's neither here nor there. I can't tell you any thing about
that, sir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?"

"Oh! very much, indeed," said Mr. Martin.

"But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know
him the better through the story," added Mrs. Martin. Tom Bourke paused
for a minute to consider this proposition.

"Well, I believe I may tell you that, any how; his name
is Patrick. He was always a smart, active, 'cute boy, and would be a great
clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother's
wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her. Her people
arid my father's people - I mean their friends, sir, among the good people,
had the greatest battle that was known for many a year, at Dunmanwaycross,
to see to whose churchyard she'd be taken. They fought for three nights, one
after another, without being able to settle it. The neighbours wondered how
long I was before I buried my mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not
tell them at that time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the
fourth morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried her
in Kilcrumper churchyard, with my father's people."

"He was a valuable friend, Tom," said Mrs. Martin,
with difficulty suppressing a smile. "But you were about to tell how he
became so skillful."

"So I will, and welcome," replied Bourke. "Your
health, ma'am. I am drinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the
truth, I never tasted the like of it: it goes down one's throat like sweet
oil. But what was [ going to say? -Yes - well - Patrick, many a long. year
ago, was coming home from a berrin late in the evening, and walking by
the side of the river, opposite the big inch [Inch - low meadow ground near a
river], near Ballyhefaan ford [A ford of the river Funcheon (the Fanchin of
Spenser), on the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin]. He had taken a drop, to
be sure; but he was only a little merry, as you may say, and knew very well
what he was doing. The moon was shining, for it was in the month of August,
and the river was as smooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing
for a long time but the fall of the water at the mill wier about a mile down
the river, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of the
river. All at once, there was a noise of a great number of people, laughing as
if they'd break their hearts, and of a piper playing among them. It came from
the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw, through the mist that hung
over the river, a whole crowd of people dancing on the inch. Patrick was as
fond of a dance as he was of a glass, and that's saying enough for him; so he
whipped [ie. "the time of the crack of a whip," he took off
his shoes and stockings] off his shoes and stockings, and away with him across
the ford. After putting on his shoes and stockings at the other side of the
river, he walked over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without
being minded. He thought, sir, that he'd show them better dancing than any of
themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and good right he had, for
there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or treble with him.
But pwah I - his dancing was no more to theirs than mine would be to the
mistress there. They did not seem as if they had a bone in their bodies, and
they kept it up as if nothing could tire them. Patrick was 'shamed within
himself, for he thought he had not his fellow in all the country round; and
was going away, when a little old man, that was looking at the company for
some time bitterly, as if he did not like what was going on, came up to him.
'Patrick,' says he.

Patrick started, for he did not think any body there knew him.
' Patrick,' says he, you're discouraged, and. no wonder for you. But you have
a friend near you. I 'm your friend, and your father's friend, and I think
worse (more) of your little finger than I do of all that are here, though they
think no one is as good as themselves. Go into the ring and call for a lilt.
Don't be afeard. I tell you the best of them did not do as well as you shall,
if you will do as I bid you.' Patrick felt something within him as if he ought
not to gainsay the old man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to
play up the best double he had. And, sure enough, all that the others were
able for was nothing to him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now there,
as light as a feather, although the people could hear the music answered by
his steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the left foot of the
piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then they got a table, and he
danced a treble on it that drew down shouts from the whole company. At last he
called for a trencher; and when they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it
like a top, they did not know what to make of him. Some praised him for the
best dancer that ever entered a ring; others hated him because he was better
than themselves; although they had good right to think themselves better than
him or any other man that never went the long journey."

"And what was the cause of his great success?"
enquired Mr. Martin.

"He could not help it, sir," replied Tom Bourke.
"They that could make him do more than that made him do it. Howsomever,
when he had done, they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they
could not persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving
your presence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly
out of his mouth, when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a white
cow grazing by his side."

"Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these
extraordinary powers in the dance, Tom'?" said Mr. Martin.

"I'll tell you that too, sir," answered Bourke,
"when I come to it. When he went home, sir, be was taken with a
shivering, and went to bed; and the next day they found he got the fever, or
something like it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn't make
out what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave him
over. But it 's little they know what ailed him. When he was, as you
may say, about ten days sick, and every body thought he was going, one of the
neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from Ballinlacken, that
was keeping with him some time before. I can't tell you his name either, only
it was Darby. The minute Darby saw Patrick, he took a little bottle, with the
juice of herbs in it, out of his pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He
did the same every day for three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk
about, as stout and as hearty as ever he was in his life. But be was a long
time before he came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by
the ditch side, talking to himself, like as if there was some one along with
him. And so there was, surely, or he wouldn't be the man he is to-day.

"I suppose it was from some such companion lie learned
his skill," said Mr. Martin.

"You have it all now, sir," replied Bourke.

"Darby told him his friends were satisfied with what he
did the night of the dance; and though they couldn't hinder the fever, they'd
bring him over it, and teach him more than many knew beside him. And so they
did. For you see all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of
a different faction; only the old man that spoke to him; he was a friend of
Patrick's family, and it went again' his heart, you see, that the others were
so light and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear 'em boasting how
they'd dance with any set in the whole country round. So he gave Patrick the
gift that night, and afterwards gave him the skill that makes him the wonder
of all that know him. And to be sure it was only learning he was that time
when he was wandering in his mind after the fever."

"I have heard many strange stories about that inch near
Ballyhefaan ford," said Mr. Martin.

" 'Tis a great place for the good people, isn't it,
Tom?"

"You may say that, sir," returned Bourke. "I
could tell you a great deal about it. Many a time I
sat for as good as two hours by moon-light, at th' other side of the river,
looking at 'em playing goal as if they'd break their hearts over it; with
their coats and waistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the heads of one
party, and red ones on th' other, just as you'd see on a Sunday in Mr.
Simming's big field. I saw 'em one night play till the moon set, without one
party being able to take the ball from th' other. I'm sure they were going to
fight, only 'twas near morning. I'm told your grandfather, ma'am, used to see
'em there, too," said Bourke, turning to Mrs. Martin.

"So I have been told, Torn," replied Mrs. Martin.
"But don't they say that the church yard of Kilcrumper [about two hundred
yards off the Dublin mail-coach road, nearly mid-way between Kilworth and
Fermoy] is just as favourite a place with the good people, as Ballyhefaan
inch."

"Why, then may be, you never heard, ma'am, what happened
to Davy Roche in that same churchyard," said Bourke; and turning to Mr.
Martin, added, " 't was a long time before he went into your service,
sir. He was walking home, of an evening, from the fair of Kilcummer, a little
merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin. So he walked
along with it, and thought it very queer, that he did not know a mother's soul
in the crowd, but one man, and he was sure that man was dead many years afore.
Howsomever, he went on with the berrin, till they came to Kilcrumper
churchyard; and faith he went in and staid with the rest, to see the corpse
buried. As soon as the grave was covered, what should they do but gather about
a piper that come along with 'em and fall to dancing as if it was a
wedding. Davy longed to be among 'em (for he hadn' t a bad foot of his own,
that time, whatever he may now); but he was loath to begin, because they all
seemed strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead. Well,
at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him. 'Davy,' says he,
'take out a partner, and show what you can do, but take care and don't offer
to kiss her.' 'That I won't,' says Davy, ' although her lips were made of
honey.' And with that he made his bow to the purtiest girl in the ring,
and he and she began to dance. 'T was a jig they danced, and they did it to
th' admiration, do you see, of all that were there. 'T was all very well till
the jig was over ; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and
was warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner, according
to custom. The smack was no sooner off of his lips, you see, than he was left
alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him, and all he could see was
the the tombstones. Davy said they seemed as if they were dancing too, but I
suppose that was only the wonder that happened him, and he being a little in
drink. Howsomever, he found it was a great many hours later than he thought
it; 'twas near morning when he came home ; but they couldn't get a word out of
him till the next day, when he 'woke out of a dead sleep about twelve
o'clock."

When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and the
berrin, it became quite evident that spirits of some sort were working too
strong within him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people.
Tom seemed conscious of this.- He muttered for a few minutes broken sentences
concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechans, and dina magh, which
were quite un-intelligible, perhaps to himself, certainly to Mr. Martin and
his lady. At length he made a slight motion of the head upwards, as if he
would say, " I can talk no more;" stretched his arm on the table,
upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly, and with the most knowing and
cautious air; and rising from his chair, walked, or rather rolled, to the
parlour-door. Here he turned round to face his host and hostess; but after
various ineffectual attempts to bid them good night, the words, as they rose,
being always choked by a violent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the
handle, swung to and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was
obliged to depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by Tom's wife, who knew well
what sort of allurement, detained him, when he remained out after a certain
hour, was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt that he
returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that within the last
month, he was, to use his own words, "As stout and hearty a man as any of
his age in the county Cork."